Word by Word

What does it mean to live your life surrounded by words? In Word by Word, Kory Stamper takes you inside Merriam-Webster’s modest building in Springfield, Massachusetts, where lexicographers work quietly through evidence, nuance, and debate to build the living record of English. Through her experience, you see dictionary-making as something both deeply human and rigorously analytic—a craft built from drudgery, collaboration, and humility before language’s endless change.

Behind the scenes of word-making

The daily reality of lexicography looks far from literary glamour. Stamper introduces editors like Fred Mish, Steve Perrault, and Gil Gilman; a cubicle floor hushed as a monastery; and piles of paper citations resting beside date stamps and Stabilo pencils hoarded against imaginary shortages. This quiet environment reflects a paradox: editors work in solitude yet craft words collaboratively. Every definition passes through a chain—definer, cross-reference editor, etymologist, proofreader—each applying specialized judgment.

Through Stamper’s training under Gil, you learn that lexicographers need more than grammar knowledge. They need sprachgefühl—a feeling for language that senses when a usage is natural, odd, old-fashioned, or new. This intuition blends with patience and evidence-tracing to turn thousands of citations into precise wording. (Note: The term dates back to German linguistic philosophy and parallels psychologist William James’s notion of “the fringe of consciousness.”)

The philosophy behind the pages

At the book’s heart lies the battle between prescriptivism and descriptivism. Prescriptivists want rules—never end with a preposition, say “well” not “good” as an adverb—while descriptivists record how users actually speak. Stamper shows that lexicographers are descriptive observers: their dictionaries document widespread written use, not moral approval. You follow this reasoning through examples like “irregardless,” “ain’t,” and “nuclear” (“nucular”), where public outrage meets linguistic facts.

The historical roots of prescriptivism—the moral grammar of Robert Lowth and Latin-based rules of John Dryden—created centuries of class-linked language policing. Stamper reframes those traditions as cultural artifacts rather than eternal truths. Her message: rules can guide clarity and style, but not dictate morality or intelligence.

The rhythm of dictionary work

Lexicography begins with evidence collection. Editors conduct “reading and marking”—photocopying magazines, highlighting words, and sending slips to typists who file them into citation drawers. These paper archives coexist with digital corpora, allowing editors to track patterns, geographic ranges, and frequency shifts. A lexicographer might start with Entertainment Weekly or Car and Driver to find contemporary slang alongside technical use. From paper slips to digital logs like Wordnik’s “million missing words,” the process stays deliberately slow and human-centered to preserve nuance.

When defining begins, Stamper guides you through exercises with “surfboard,” “hella,” and “take.” You use genus-differentiae logic, test substitution, and apply formulae from Merriam-Webster’s Black Books—the internal style bible created by Philip Babcock Gove. Definitions demand empirical evidence and editorial restraint. They must be concise, substitutable, and precise; vague philosophical musings are forbidden. You feel this rigor during the “take marathon,” where one word generates dozens of senses—“take a nap,” “take charge,” “take offense”—each requiring distinct wording.

Language, power, and public reaction

Stamper reminds you that people treat dictionaries as moral authorities, not descriptive records. When Merriam-Webster added a definition for same-sex marriage in 2003, backlash flooded the editorial inbox. Similarly, outrage over “irregardless” or “nude” (once defined in terms of “white skin color”) reveals how deeply language connects to identity. The Language Research Service exists to answer public letters, but its replies also navigate ethics: explain evidence calmly, acknowledge emotional stakes, and uphold descriptivism against bias.

Her reflections on dialect politics—African-American Vernacular English, Chicano English, regional phrases like “I’m done my homework”—show how dialect judgments often mask social prejudice. Lexicographers learn to respect linguistic systems where outsiders hear mistakes. The Trayvon Martin case, where witness Rachel Jeantel’s AAVE testimony was misunderstood, exemplifies how misunderstanding language can distort justice.

The humility of language history

Etymology and dating serve as mirrors of humility. Editors know that origin stories (“posh = port out, starboard home”) often appeal more than truth. Etymology is reconstructive, provisional, and never prescriptive. Dating a word—like “day hike” (1918) or “American dream” (1900)—marks the first printed use of a sense, not invention. Both tasks require exact matching of meaning, not form.

By the end of Stamper’s portrait, the lexicographer emerges as a “harmless drudge” in Johnson’s phrase—devoted to evidence, empathy, and precision. You leave her story seeing that lexicography is not only about words but about the ethics of documenting human expression truthfully, without distortion or judgment.

Stamper insists that the dictionary’s first duty is to record, not to police. That seemingly small distinction changes everything you think you know about correctness. Prescriptivism—the impulse to protect language purity—feels satisfying but often ignores reality. Descriptivism watches language change as social evidence.

From Latin imitation to social hierarchy

English acquired many arbitrary “rules” from 18th-century scholars like Dryden and Lowth, who modeled syntax on Latin. They equated propriety with virtue: correct speech meant moral refinement. That linkage birthed modern linguistic elitism—the belief that your social rank shows in your diction. The descriptivist lexicographer breaks that bond by showing historical flexibility. “Ending a sentence with a preposition,” Dryden’s taboo, conflicts with English’s natural Germanic structure. “Good” as an adverb survived a millennium of use regardless of school condemnation.

Real evidence, not opinion

You see descriptivism in practice through Stamper’s treatment of notorious words. “Irregardless,” though widely scorned, appears continually from the 1860s onward; it performs an emphatic function absent in “regardless.” It earns dictionary status because of sustained written use, not moral approval. Similarly, “nucular” represents natural metathesis—common even among presidents—explained rather than condemned.

Descriptivism's ethic

To describe is to respect speakers as they are, not as teachers wish them to be. Every dictionary entry becomes a sociolinguistic snapshot: factual, sober, and humane.

Language as living evidence

Descriptive editing demands humility. You must read cultural and emotional context, not just syntax. Dialects—AAVE, regional Canadian phrasing, or internet slang—embody community logic. When Stamper’s daughter says, “I’m done my homework,” she faces a tension between social expectation and linguistic identity. The lexicographer’s compassion helps bridge that tension: understanding that judgment often reflects social bias, not linguistic error.

Descriptivism therefore isn’t license for chaos. It’s empiricism—guided by evidence, structure, and frequency—and also empathy. You learn to see correctness as convention, not morality, and language itself as the democracy of everyday voices.

Every lexical discovery starts with a citation. Stamper shows that behind every concise definition lies mountains of reading, copying, and indexing. “Reading and marking” is the lexicographer’s equivalent of fieldwork—a slow archaeology of use.

The old paper trail

Samuel Johnson’s underlined manuscripts and slip boxes survive as tradition. Merriam-Webster’s editorial floor still houses rows of paper files—physical evidence of words in print. Editors like Steve Perrault train newcomers to underline notable uses, bracket context, and write margins signals for typists. Diversity of sources matters: stamping citations from popular magazines, car reviews, and religious periodicals ensures representational balance.

Digital revolution with human judgment

Corpora—massive searchable text banks—extend this work but don’t replace it. Wordnik’s hunt for “a million missing words” captures the ambition, but human editors still judge nuance and collocation. Online data is volatile; web pages change and vanish, demanding constant vigilance. Even Wikipedia campaigns, such as Bryan Henderson’s effort to remove “is comprised of,” reveal the editing ecosystem’s fragility.

Despite technology, lexicography remains tactile: boxes, sticky notes, and hands-on sorting. Accuracy grows from repetitive reading, pattern recognition, and slow consensus.

Evidence is everything

Without documented evidence, even a clever definition lacks foundation. Dictionaries are archives of actual use, not collections of speculation.

In short, collecting citations is both a data science and an art of attentive reading—proving that even modern lexicography relies on the slow labor of humans noticing language in the wild.

Definition writing, Stamper reminds you, is less philosophical than mechanical—but filled with creativity. You’re not explaining what something “really is”; you’re describing how people use it in context.

Genus and differentiae

A good lexical definition specifies the broad category (genus) and the distinguishing traits (differentiae). For “surfboard,” the genus “board” narrows with adjectives like “long, narrow, buoyant.” Editors use the substitution test: can your phrasing interchangeably fit into real sentences? If not, rewrite.

Training the mind to precision

New editors practice on worksheets and make inevitable mistakes—unwarranted gendered phrasing, circular definitions, or poorly chosen modifiers. Gil silently corrects each until you internalize accuracy as instinct. You learn why definitions must be brief yet contain grammatical scaffolding; why Merriam-Webster’s “Black Books” dictate formulaic structures; and why verbosity fossilizes dictionaries into historical curiosities (as shown in the outdated "hotel" entry listing dancing compartments).

Iterative creation

Large words like “take” expose the scale of lexicographic labor. Each sense—literal or idiomatic—requires clean boundaries, verified citations, and internal cross-references. You pile citations for each meaning, test overlaps, split senses when necessary, then stamp and sign completion. The routine becomes ritualized perfectionism, anchored in language evidence and editorial endurance.

Every definition is teamwork

From defining to proofreading, each line is seen by many eyes. Collaboration guarantees that a word’s portrayal reflects collective expertise, not one editor’s style.

By viewing definitions as craftsmanship—logic tempered by empathy and repetition—you learn that clarity grows from shared precision, patience, and linguistic respect.

Grammar in lexicography isn’t a fixed grid; it’s a web. Stamper demonstrates how parts of speech blur through gradience, reminding you that words resist neat labeling. “Run” behaves as verb, noun, and adjective depending on context—a truth grammar textbooks rarely acknowledge.

Judging function, not form

Editors rely on context and substitution tests to decide categories. They use tools like the humorous “Transitizer” (“I’ma ___ ya ass”) to test verb transitivity—a reminder that even serious linguistic judgment benefits from humor. Differences of interpretation, like Emily Brewster’s vs. Stamper’s analysis of “but,” highlight how language grants multiple defensible readings rather than absolute answers.

Historical quirks and flexibility

Old editions treated articles (“the,” “a,” “an”) as adjectives to capture their modifying role. Today, editors treat them separately but still acknowledge the blur between function words. Randolph Quirk’s “net” metaphor captures English’s fluidity: parts of speech overlap like interlocking strings rather than boxes.

Grammar is descriptive, not prescriptive

Lexicographers document grammar as it works, not as it “should” work. Their responsibility is accuracy, not correction.

This flexible, evidence-led understanding of grammar helps editors preserve language’s full creativity while avoiding dogmatic precision that obscures how people actually speak.

Profanity and slurs expose the limits of lexicographic neutrality. Stamper’s analysis of “bitch” traces how dictionaries evolved from coy omission to careful labeling—a story about social power and editorial conscience.

Historical evolution and conflict

Johnson’s 1755 dictionary included the insult sense but softened it with moral phrasing. Through centuries, editors debated labeling—“disparaging,” “offensive,” “slang”—against shifting public norms. Only women editors like Susan Brady pushed successfully for transparent marking in the Collegiate editions. This history shows that who edits matters: lived experience shapes linguistic classification.

Reclamation and complexity

Reclaimed words like “bitch” complicate categorization. Jo Freeman’s feminist manifesto encouraged reclamation as empowerment, yet sociologists later warned of normalization risks. Lexicographers can’t adjudicate morality; they can annotate evolving usage and context. Entries thus include usage notes rather than verdicts—acknowledging power without simplifying it.

Ethical lexicography

The editor must act like a surgeon—precise, analytical, and compassionate—because taboo words carry trauma beyond their printed senses.

This chapter transforms dictionary-making into a model of ethical reasoning: balanced honesty, acknowledgment of harm, and transparent editorial choices rooted in social awareness.

Words live across centuries, and etymology traces those lives through change. Stamper cautions you against the “original-meaning fallacy,” the belief that a word’s first meaning dictates correctness forever. English disproves that daily.

Etymologies as hypotheses

Noah Webster’s biblical “Chaldee” speculations remind you how even visionary lexicographers overreached with limited data. Today, editors rely on comparative phonology and documentary evidence. Charming tales—like “posh” meaning “port out, starboard home”—collapse under scrutiny when no contemporaneous records exist. Scientific etymology treats every claim as provisional reconstruction.

Dating words as living timelines

A dictionary’s parenthetical year marks the first printed use of a specific sense. Antedating hunts uncover earlier forms and adjust history. Stamper’s colleagues like Joanne Despres chase those first sightings across archives, learning humility when new scans revise decades-old “firsts.”

Language time is fluid

A dictionary date anchors usage in history, not invention. Every discovered citation refreshes understanding of cultural chronology.

Through this lens, you learn linguistic modesty: to treat etymology and dating as ongoing research, not monuments—reminders that English, like its speakers, never stands still.

Perhaps the most surprising truth you uncover is that lexicographers regularly defend their work in public. The Language Research Service transforms dictionary editors into educators, addressing mail ranging from whimsical questions to politically charged criticism.

Public trust and backlash

The “marriage” controversy proved how deeply people read dictionaries as moral authorities. When Merriam-Webster added same-sex sense definitions in the Eleventh Collegiate, backlash ignited web campaigns accusing the dictionary of activism. Editors replied: the entry was descriptive, based on evidence. This dynamic repeats across decades—language change mistaken for ideology.

Legal and cultural myths of dictionary power

Courts cite dictionaries, yet as scholars Brudney and Baum show, judges often cherry-pick definitions to support existing opinions. Dictionaries legitimize arguments symbolically more than legally. Still, their aura of authority persists, partly because publishers advertise themselves as “The Voice of Authority.” Stamper wants you to see that authority as interpretive, not absolute.

Editing as public ethics

Lexicographers answer not only to linguistic evidence but to cultural anxieties. Each public letter demands respect and education: a dictionary is dialogue, not decree.

This final layer affirms that making dictionaries is civic work—maintaining trust, explaining change, and defending language’s democratic nature against those who fear evolution itself.